The Weight of a Sword
I sat next to my wife, grim. Troy's high walls usually gave me comfort. Today, however, I knew they would not protect me. They could not protect me. I was due to pay the consequences I had put, unknowingly, upon myself.
"Hector!" The shout did not startle me, it was bound to happen. My wife, my beautiful Andromache, gripped my hand tightly. Eight more times I listened to the terse, livid voice calling me, inviting me.
I stood. I looked deeply, lovingly into my wife's eyes. She was strong, yes, but no amount of willpower could hold back her weeping. Her tears trailed down her face steadily, silently. I kissed her deeply, savoring her softness, her scent.
We broke apart. I kissed the brow of my infant son, caressed his bald head. I embraced my brother. Paris' eyes watched me mournfully, lovingly. As I had done many times when he was just a boy, I ran my finger down the length of his cheek. He grasped it, held it tightly.
Breaking our gaze, I turned to my father. Solemnly, I extended my hand. In response, my father grasped my face in his aged, leathery hands. A single tear trickled down the side of his face.
"My boy, my Hector," my father whispered. "You are my firstborn, my pride. You are a great leader, an admirable fighter, and an excellent husband and father. You are my son, my blessings are with you. May Apollo guide your sword." He closed his eyes and kissed my forehead, as he had done so many times when I was a child. We embraced. I clung to him, every cell in body wishing that my father, my king, would stop me, would restrain me from this fight.
I was scared, terrified. But, no matter how scared I was, I was not cowardly. Nay, my dignity always won against my fear. Fear is a strange thing. It separates the brave from the cowards. For the brave are afraid, but face their fears. Cowards, however, succumb to their uncertainties, and are controlled by them.
Taking a final look, I turned and walked down from my sanctuary. My sandals made a resounding thud with each step I took, away from safety, from sureness.
My men stood by the entrance of the city, looking solemn and gallant in their shining armor.
"Men," I nodded to them. Their heads bowed in respect. I had nothing more to say them, they knew, they understood.
The mass of them separated, just like Moses separated the Red Sea.
Facing the stone gate, I took a deep breath. My faithful men opened the great doors, and the shining sun attacked me with her piercing rays.
Squinting in the midday sun, I marched to the awaiting, burly form of Achilles. He had never been beaten, had killed a numberless amount of my men. Yet, I respected him more than any other Greek who dared to attack my sandy shores.
Achilles not only led his men, but was one with his men. His men trusted him, feared him. He fought alongside his fellow Myrmidons, instead of reclining in his throne, which the way of Menelaus. Achilles was a good leader in that way, for a good leader does not just lead, but is a part of whom he leads. If I knew nothing else about him except that, I would respect him.
But, no respect would rescue me from this situation. The dangerous glare Achilles drilled into my soul was murderous. Achilles was ruthless; he would either kill or be killed.
I stopped a good length away from him, measuring him. His movements, despite the heavy armor, were light and well-practiced. He was a good fighter. I knew that.
I lifted my sword. The sword of Troy. My father's words echoed in my head:
As long as the Sword of Troy remains in the hands of a Trojan, the people have a future.
Most had not realized how heavy a sword actually is. It is not a flimsy stick of wood, but a powerful, fatal artwork of bronze and steel. Untrained men had found in difficult to lift a sword, much less have they maneuvered with one. Yet, swords are more reliable, more dependable than any man. Swords had lasted through the ages, almost as long as history herself. They have carried a past, a present, and a future.
Numerous people had carried this sword, and countless others had met their end on the tip of it. The pain, the misery, the pure heartache this sword had caused was difficult to bear. It seemed mad to fathom such an object; a weapon that sent many unfortunate souls to the awaiting boatman. Discord had stained the core of this sword for centuries; and for the first time, this sword felt heavy, unbalanced, in my trained hand.
I then broke the silence, voicing my thoughts.
"I've seen this moment in my dreams. I'll make a pact with you. With the gods as our witnesses, let us pledge that the winner will allow the loser all proper funeral rituals." I awaited for his angered response.
"There are no pacts between lions and men," Achilles' spat. I stood, unwavering. I had expected it.
With that, he removed his helmet and shrewdly spoke: "Now you know who you are fighting."
Guilt washed over me. I would never forgive myself for killing that boy. And, that's what he was, merely a boy. And I killed him.
Likewise, I discarded my helmet. "I thought it was you I was fighting yesterday. And I wished it had been you. But, I gave the boy the honor he deserved."
"You gave him the honor of your sword. You won't have eyes tonight. You won't have ears or a tongue. You will roam the underworld blind, deaf, and dumb, and all the dead will know: this is Hector, the fool who thought he killed Achilles."
A pregnant silence fell over us. My respect for Achilles was slowly diminishing. The gods had cursed him with a flaw: he couldn't forgive. And, in that way, he was cruel.
Achilles then advanced, and our battle begun. I discarded my wandering thoughts and focused on only his sword and mine, as I had so advised Paris earlier before his brawl with Menelaus.
The fight ensued; we were a fair match. Sweat building on my brow, I dodged yet another swing of Achilles' sword.
I then fell. I felt exhausted, drained.
"Get up, prince of Troy," Achilles commanded. "Get up; I won't let a stone take my glory."
Sheer power of my will and determination lifted me to my feet. I wildly sliced the air, missing Achilles completely. My movements were slow, labored, and I was not swift enough to miss the next stab Achilles delivered.
Time passed, thoughts were formless in the haze that filled my mind. All I was aware of was flailing arms, swords, the blue sky.
Red broke through the fogginess as Achilles plunged a spear into my shoulder, bringing me to my knees.
It was then I knew I was going to die. Achilles fought me, overcome with hatred, remorse, and grief over his lost cousin. My own emotions could not match his intense feelings, for I was fighting under obligation more than want. He had more reason to fight, and he would stop fighting until he saw the spirit of life leave me forever.
I accepted this fact as I drew a quivering breath and watched as Achilles raised his sword. His eyes flashed pity, for merely a second, before it was replaced with rage as he administered the fatal blow.
The heaviness of the sword forced me on my side. I watched a panting Achilles as he looked over at me, an undecipherable look plaguing his face. My eyes, now so weary, willingly closed as darkness engulfed me.